The Children's Crusade
by dalekchung
Summary: Alex was living a comfortable life until the first bomb went off and he was dragged, kicking and screaming, back into the life he'd left behind.
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN ALEX RIDER.**

Chapter 1

* * *

 _"And so it goes."_

 _Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse-Five_

* * *

"This makes me look like a Class-A douchebag."

"Don't be stupid, Alan. You look great."

Alan Colt, known to most as either 'genius-boy' or 'kiddo', straightened his bowtie, frowning at his reflection. He looked nothing like himself. His brown hair—was that a bit of blonde poking out from his roots?—was combed neatly and gelled back, giving him a Draco Malfoy kind of appearance. His brown eyes, peeking from behind thick frames, was wide, giving him an innocent, puppy-eyed look.

He took off his glasses, wiping the smudged glass on the hem of his untucked shirt. He didn't need them, of course, but Alan thought it made him look more scholarly, like the smart pre-law student he was.

A grin stretched over his face as he place the glasses back onto his face. Pre-law student? Not in a month—he'd be going to _law school_ in a month. The thought alone was enough to make him squirm childishly.

"Ready?"

Alan turned his grin onto his best friend. Jess was dressed in a floor-length gown, a deep, rich shade of red. She leaned against the doorframe, her eyebrows raised and a smirk on her face.

"I feel like James Bond," Alan complained, tucking his shirt in hastily. His English accent echoed in the bathroom as Jess rolled her eyes.

"Isn't that, like, supposed to be a _good_ thing?" She asked, crossing her arms. Her southern accent twanged as she watched Alan fix his bowtie once more.

Alan didn't reply as he gave himself another critical look before nodding and offering Jess his arm, "Shall we?"

She grinned, putting on a mock English accent, "We shall."

They were going out to 'celebrate' Alan's twenty-first birthday by taking a stroll in an art gallery—one that was posh and lavish. Jess was one of those people that had filthy rich relatives that invited them to things like art galleries and nights at the theatre.

Jess was only a year older than him, but they had met in class, as she was also pre-law. In fact, she was the one to start the campus-wide trend of calling him 'genius-boy', even though he wasn't a genius or a boy. He didn't mind it, though. He was only a year younger than everyone else due to his messed up secondary school years. He didn't really like talking about it, and if anyone asked, Alan gave an evasive answer.

They arrived at the art gallery at a timely fashion and spent the first few minutes walking around aimlessly. Alan inspected each piece of work critically, not saying anything as he did so. Beside him, Jess chattered happily about LSATs and law school. She'd scored a spot at Harvard while Alan was going to Stanford. It was a long, long way away, but Jess wasn't going to get all sad and mushy on him. Alan was friends with her for a reason.

When he got sufficiently fed up with looking at the frankly dull pieces of artwork, Alan resorted to people watching. In the background, Jess chattered cheerfully before breaking away to talk to an elderly man.

Alan's eyes swept over the small crowd. He wasn't sure what he liked so much about people watching, but he did know why he did it. People could be monsters, and even though he was retired (well, kind of), it was still engrained in his mind that he had to help the civilians.

It wasn't hard to pick out the most suspicious people first, but Alan easily discarded the thought of them being potential threats. One was swaying drunkenly on his feet, murmuring something in a woman's ear. His face flushed, and his pupils dilated, it wasn't hard to see what was wrong with him.

Alan turned his gaze away and back onto Jess, who was sauntering over with a glass of wine.

"Isn't this awesome?" She asked, taking a gulp of the stuff.

Alan wrinkled his nose in distaste and crossed his arms, "I'd rather be home."

Jess rolled her eyes and shoved the nearly empty glass of wine into his hands, "Doing what? Studying? Honestly, Al, learn to live a little."

Alan set the glass gingerly onto a nearby table, protesting, "I am living. Besides, all that studying is going to pay off. Law school, remember?"

"Right, right," Jess waved him off, "Whatever, let's go home."

"Wait—" Halfway through their conversation, Alan noticed the drunken man that he had observed earlier straighten abruptly, moving toward the exit. The red flush on his face was slowly draining away, and he moved with a purpose, dabbing the bit of sweat off his forehead with a handkerchief. Alan's eyes narrowed in on the device in his hand. What was it? A cell phone?

In the background, soothing jazz music played, the indistinct conversations of the attenders underneath. Jess was tugging at his sleeve, looking concerned.

Alan ignored her, searching once more for the threat. It was somewhere in this room, he knew. His adrenaline—something he hadn't felt for the last few years, at least, not like this—flowed freely. It was intoxicating, dangerous—the exact reason why he wanted to get away from it in the first place. Shallow breaths and steady fingers. Alan swept the room with his gaze once more.

Someone's cellphone rang loudly, and the indistinct conversations halted. Everyone looked around disapprovingly, trying to find the culprit (how dare someone bring a ringing cellphone to a convention like this?) in the mass.

Alan's eyes instantly focused on the woman he'd spotted earlier—the one who had been talking to the fake-drunk man. She was scrambling to find the phone, her face red. She grappled with the phone—a flip phone, was it?—reaching to either accept the call or decline it, Alan didn't know. He just knew he had to stop her before she pressed the button. Before she set off—

"Stop!" A shout was ripped from Alan's throat as he lunged forward. Jess was holding him back, but he easily shoved past her.

Her finger hit the button, and from this angle, Alan could see her thumb pressing the green 'accept call' button. Around them, people stared, muttering amongst themselves. Was he crazy? What did he think he was doing? _Stupid youngsters._

Nothing happened for a fraction of a moment. Alan was still lurching forward, but time seemed to slow and it was hard to force himself forward. Had he been wrong? Was he just paranoid?

 _BOOM._

Alan wasn't close enough to stop it. The woman—who was she, even?—was blown apart. Alan couldn't tell what went first, but she was red mist a second later.

The force of the bomb (oh, Alan _had_ been right) knocked him backwards, and he went flying, straight for a painting depicting a marshmallow.

He was deaf as he sailed backwards. He couldn't hear anyone else's screams, even though he could see their mouths wide open. He couldn't do anything except let the laws of physics take him away, back into the painting, and then into the wall.

Pain. The most pain he had been in since he was seventeen. And then came the sweet release of unconsciousness.

* * *

 **A/N:** Hello everyone! As you can tell, I'm starting a new story: _The Children's Crusade._ The title was inspired by Vonnegut's _Slaughterhouse-Five,_ which I find is a fascinating book. I know that this chapter is short, but I promise the next will be better (hopefully). I'm hoping to experiment a little bit with my writing style here, so please bear with me. I'm not exactly sure where I'm going at the moment. Leave a review if you liked (or if you didn't), and I'll see ya later!

-Alice x


	2. Chapter 2

**I DO NOT OWN ALEX RIDER.**

Chapter 2

 _"It is just an illusion we have here on Earth that one moment follows another one, like beads on a string, and that once a moment is gone it is gone forever."_

 _Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse-Five_

* * *

"You _can't_ possibly be thinking about dragging him back into this mess again!" The rough, almost familiar voice was what he first heard as he woke.

"I know this is regrettable," another voice, this time, very familiar, answered. Thought it was higher pitched, the woman spoke lowly, "but there is no other choice. I've tried to manage without him for the past couple of years—"

"Well, try harder! He was just a kid when you dragged him into this whole mess. He deserves to have a normal life."

There was a pause in conversation before the second voice replied, "They were after _him._ It's not my choice anymore whether or not to bring him in."

There was a sigh and someone's footsteps were heard, growing fainter and fainter.

"You can get up now, Alex."

Alan—or, rather, Alex—thought briefly of ignoring her, but the heart rate monitor sped up with a _beep-beep-beep_ , alerting the two that he indeed was awake.

"Jones," he acknowledged, forcing his eyes open. His voice was rough and his mouth felt dry. As if knowing what he was thinking, Jones placed a water bottle on the table in front of him, watching impassively as he struggled to sit up.

"So you heard?" Jones smoothed her grey skirt, watching Alex as he began to drink slowly. Her beady eyes took in his every move. "Director Byrne didn't want to get you involved in this, if that's any consolation."

It wasn't, and Jones knew it.

Her eyes softened, "Look, Alex, I really wish I didn't have to drag you back into this—"

"—but you have no other choice," Alex finished for her, setting the capped bottle of water down. He was pleased to note that the heart rate monitor didn't increase at all as he struggled with his inner conflicting emotions. "Save it and explain."

Jones reached into her pocket. At first, Alex thought that maybe she was reaching for another one of her dreaded mints, but when he turned his head more to look at her, he realized she'd pulled out a phone—or something that resembled a phone.

"What do you remember about yesterday?" Jones asked carefully, taking a cautious few steps forward.

Alex's suspicion grew at her words, "A bomb. I tried to stop it, but I was too late."

"Yes, that was rather... _unfortunate,"_ Jones said very carefully. She tapped something on her phone and held it up. There was a picture of the woman that had accepted the call. She was dead, no doubt. Guilt filled Alex. "Do you know this woman?"

Alex studied the picture for a minute, racking his brain, "No," he finally said, "should I?"

Jones pocketed the phone, "She was a senator. Very important."

Alex watched as Jones reached into her pocket once more and took out a peppermint. She popped it into her mouth, crumpling the wrapper. Alex knew that she only did this when she was agitated.

"In the past twelve months, three U.S. senators, four CIA agents, and two MPs died in suspicious circumstances. Everyone's on edge—CIA, MI6, you name it. We've already conducted a few missions, and we barely have any more information than we did a year ago."

"And you want me to help," Alex stated dully, knowing the glint in her eyes.

"She wasn't the only target today, you know," Jones tapped the phone in her pocket, sending Alex a knowing look. "It wasn't a coincidence that you were there too."

Alex's throat closed up, and he could barely breathe out, "Jess?"

Jones pursed her thin lips, stilling. She looked away, "Her real name was Emma Rosalind. She's dead. I'm sorry."

He wasn't sure whether or not Jones was sorry about her death or about Alex's own ignorance. How could he have let someone like her in his life? Why hadn't he at least double checked who 'Jess' really was?

Alex sank back into the hospital's pillows, steadying his breaths, listening as the heart rate monitor _beeped_ steadily, a little quicker than it had been beeping a moment earlier.

"They're after you," Jones said softly. "They're after political power and high-up figures. We need to stop them."

Alex looked up at her, giving her a vicious glare, "And I'm supposed to just drop everything for this _stupid_ mission? _Again?_ I'm not sure if you've forgotten, Jones, but I've already risked _everything_ for you and your damn agency!"

"I know," Jones cut in before Alex could continue his angry rant, "but they're going to come after you, and until they're stopped, they'll keep hunting you down. They'll target your friends. Innocents, Alex. I know you don't want that."

Alex glared at her more intensely, trying to hide his thoughts. He could sense his will slipping with every word that left her lips. "And what about my life here? I'm going to Stanford. You can't just whisk me away. I worked hard for this."

Jones didn't flinch at his underlying message: _You're the ones who made it so difficult for me. Why do I have to pay when it's all your fault?_

"We'll sort it out," she promised, but Alex didn't trust her.

He gritted his teeth, "What if I still say no?"

Jones' expression morphed into a hard, blank slate. Whatever emotions she had been displaying—which wasn't much—it was now gone, "I'm afraid I'll have to resort to regrettable means."

Alex knew what she meant by that. His friends would be thrown in jail. His career would be flushed down the toilet. Stanford would kick him out. His entire history—jobs, achievements—down the drain. Bank account cleared. _Life ruined._

He nodded, and with that single move, he saw the victory in Jones' eyes, "I'll do it, but you better draw up a written, legal statement."

Jones smiled. It wasn't actually a 'happy' smile. It was more of a smile that let everyone else know that she was in control. She had won.

"Of course, Alex."

T*C*C

Alex stayed in the hospital for three full days, which was three days longer than he was expecting. After the first day, Jones had disappeared, probably back to the Royal and General Bank to sort out his upcoming mission, and Joe Byrne kept him company. Alex liked Joe even though he was one of those nasty intelligence directors, plotting and manipulating in his sound-proof, bullet-proof office. They spent the days alternating between playing cards and talking in soft, hushed tones about the mission.

It turned out that no one new much about the deaths besides that it was done by some kind of assassination agency. Joe reckoned that it was the new SCORPIA—the one that took over SCORPIA's position as a global power—but they didn't have any proof besides it was something called the IA. They liked to leave and take little souvenirs at every crime scene. They'd taken the senator's ID last time and left behind a pair of glasses that belonged to one of the MPs.

Tapping his fingers on his seat, Alex turned his head to stare out the window. He was on a private jet, Joe somewhere behind him, heading to an undisclosed location in Europe. It was an important meeting, someone had told him. Alex had to be there.

He didn't really understand the point. He wasn't into politics. He just wanted to go in then get out as soon as possible.

Alex stared at the deceivingly thin folder in front of him. It was a standard manila colored folder with the words 'TOP SECRET' printed in bold on the top. He'd read through it many times, but hadn't found anything particularly useful. Anyway, he'd figured it was all the same mumbo jumbo as before. Assassins. Threats. Doom.

"You okay?" Joe asked, looking up from a cup of coffee and his own standard issue manila colored folder.

Alex tore his gaze from it, blinking slowly at the director, "Yeah. Fine."

They didn't talk after that.

They arrived two hours later. Alex wasn't sure where they'd landed, but if he had to guess, he would say they were on neutral ground. Glancing out the window, Alex noted that they were on an obscure, private runway. Despite that, there were still many security guards on patrol.

Alex didn't bring anything with him except a backpack filled with clothes and other necessities. He threw it on his back and followed Joe out.

It took them half an hour to reach their location. Peering out of their tinted windows, Alex found that _all_ the cars around them were filled with backup. They were discreet in their actions, driving civilian cars in a multitude of colors.

"The meeting starts in a few," Joe told him as they rushed from the belly of the government issued vehicle and into the building. It looked like an office complex, but Alex reckoned it was some other country's 'international crisis meeting place'.

"So," Alex noted Joe's shallow breaths, and he took longer strides to keep up, "you're saying we're late."

"Damn right," Joe cursed, speeding up.

They didn't encounter any security, so Alex assumed that he'd been checked surreptitiously, perhaps when he had crossed over the threshold or popped into the elevator.

"Come on, _come on_ ," Joe reached the last door at the end of the hallway—it looked the same as all the others, a sturdy wooden door with a number painted on the surface—and tapped something into the keypad. It unlocked and he dragged Alex inside.

"Yep, we're late," Alex muttered under his breath.

The meeting room was more of a conference room, and every seat (thank God they were the squishy, wiggly kinds) except two were filled. One was next to Jones—Alex assumed this one was for him—and one was next to a sour-faced tanned man. Joe and Alex took their respective places, the more important of the two apologizing quickly.

Alex didn't look at Jones as he sat. Instead, he focused on the sheets of papers placed in front of him. They were outlines of optional strategies, he realized. Tactical airstrikes (it seemed that they did know where their major bases were), infiltrations (they'd tried four times and it had failed each time), and military operations (for each compound? There were just too many).

"Let's get this meeting started, seeing as everyone is here," Jones began. Alex wondered who decided to put her in charge. "As we discussed last time, I have brought Agent Rider. If you've ever worked with him, you understand the serious advantage this is."

Alex dared to lift his eyes to inspect the circle of politicians. He didn't know all of them, of course, but some he did recognize. Most were directors of their country's intelligence agency, but there were a few (including Canada's Prime Minister) world leaders.

"If you all recall the group SCORPIA," several of the members stiffened visibly, "you should be thanking Agent Rider for their collapse."

After that statement, Alex noted that the silent directors looked at him a bit more approvingly. Typical.

"I hope that he is able to offer his opinions," Jones turned to Alex with an expectant look in her eyes. Alex merely gave her a glare. She cleared her throat, "Right—so we'll do this like last time. Major identified bases first before we move onto the smaller targets."

There was the sound of general agreement as the directors shuffled their papers and produced pens out of thin air. Alex slumped in his chair, holding back a yawn. Sure, he had tons of practice trying to stay awake in lectures, but he really couldn't care less.

He closed his eyes and listened as the meeting—the real heavy stuff—began.

"...airstrikes work the best on the larger complexes..."

"...hostages!"

"...can't bomb them...they have some of our own..."

Voices weaved together. In and out. Through one of Alex's ear and out the other.

"This stuff is pretty boring, huh?" The person to the left of Alex asked. From his voice, Alex could tell he'd adopted the same posture as him, leaning back with his arms crossed over his chest.

Alex lifted his eyelids lazily and glanced over, not bothering to turn his head. With unruly brown hair and unguarded brown eyes, the man beside him didn't seem much like the serious officials around them. He was young—not as young as Alex, of course, but young enough for him to stick out.

"Yeah," Alex agreed, "You could say that."

The guy smiled, "So you're the famous Agent Rider, huh? From the way Jones kept on going on about you, I thought you were some kind of retired war veteran." There was no hostility in his voice, only plain curiosity.

"Yes," Alex answered shortly, finally turning his head towards the guy. "And you are?"

"Aegosokovia," the man grinned loosely. "We're a small country, so I won't be offended if you've never heard of us."

Alex hid his frown. He had never heard of this country, and he thought he knew his geography pretty well.

"Nice to meet you, Aegosokovia," Alex replied after a beat of silence between the two. It was evident that the man wasn't going to give him a name.

"Likewise," the man grinned.

Alex turned away. He didn't trust this guy, and he was suspicious. Why was he suspicious again?

" _Dum, dee-dee dum, bah-dum-da-doo,"_ the man sung under his breath, tapping a rhythm on his thigh, " _tick-tickety tock. Bah-dah-dee-boom. Boom, boom, boom."_

This caught Alex's attention. He whipped his head sharply over to stare at Aegosokovia, who shot him a nasty, knowing grin. He leaned over partially and sung lowly into Alex's ear, "Stay quiet or this whole _room_ is going to go _bah-dah-boom!_ And we're all going to _explode. Kah-pow-mooosh!"_

Alex's breath caught in his throat as Aegosokovia drew back, smiling all the while. The man was a psychopath! Alex dealt with psychopaths before, but never in a room full of higher-ups with said higher-ups letting someone slip past their guard.

Aegosokovia hummed under his breath, closing his eyes and leaning back once more, enjoying whatever he was listening to in his messed up head, " _Boom-bah-dee-boom."_

Reaching out slowly, Alex managed to tap Jones' leg covertly without looking suspicious. The guy still had his eyes closed, but Alex suspected that he wasn't as unobservant as he seemed.

Out of the corner of his eye, Alex saw Jones turn her head to peer at him, but he kept his gaze fixed on Aegosokovia, hoping the head of MI6 would get his silent message. It seemed to work. After a long spiel from an accented voice—it was probably France—Jones stood and declared a fifteen minute recess. The majority of the room fled within the first ten seconds.

"Alex? Are you coming?" Jones asked as she prepared to leave the room. Aegosokovia was still there, leaning on the back of his chair, humming merrily, rocking back and forth.

Alex eyed the man, "I'm okay. You go ahead."

Jones left without another word. Alex was trusting her to go alert the rest of the officials. It was ironic. He hadn't ever trusted her, and now, he was depending on her help.

"Oh, oh," Aegosokovia smirked, "you bad, bad boy. Shouldn't have done that, Agent Rider. Shouldn't have told your little MI6 friend."

"I didn't," Alex denied, his eyes searching the walls, the chairs, any open space for a sign of the bomb that Aegosokovia had promised.

" _Tick-tock, goes the bomb,"_ Aegosokovia sang, the chuckle very clear in his voice, " _the one you can't even see. Tick-tock, tick-tock..._ you've run out of time. I have what I want."

Aegosokovia opened his eyes, looking smug as he lifted himself off of the back of the chair and stood, the roll-y chair not making a single noise against the carpet, "You should have just taken me down in front of all those people. You could have stopped me from sending all that information to the I.A."

Alex's eyes narrowed, and he stood at the same time Aegosokovia stood. The man held out his wrists, a glazed look over his eyes.

"What are you doing?" Alex questioned. He was expecting a fight—a scuffle at the least. This man was strange. This whole thing was bizarre. Alex had never encountered something as _weird_ as this.

Aegosokovia looked at him expectantly, "Handcuff me, big boy. You're going to question me, right?" He leaned forward and whispered in Alex's ear, " _You're_ going to be the one to ask me the questions right? I'd love to see you all riled up. It's the new sexy, darling."

Alex didn't waste a moment. Grabbing Aegosokovia by the wrist, he slammed the man into the table, face-first. He glared at the man, who was chuckling.

"I don't have enough patience for _pests,"_ Alex hissed. He didn't have a pair of handcuffs, so he improvised, using the rubber bands on the table. He doubted that the man would even try to run away. He seemed too crazy for that.

" _Sexy,"_ Aegosokovia sang as Alex pulled him from the table and pushed him out into the hallway. "I told my superiors that you were ultra-mega-hot. Can I see your abs?"

Alex sighed out of his nose, tightening his grip on the man's wrists.

"I bet they're rock hard. Can I feel them? I promise I won't touch you again. Okay, joking. I want to feel your biceps too. Are they as hard as your abs? Can I caress your face? Have I mentioned that you're like super-ultra-mega-insanely hot. Like a hot dog. Like a bomb. _Tick-tock..."_

* * *

 **A/N:** Okay, so how was this chapter? I liked the beginning more than the end, but ehh. If y'all want to leave a review about what you would like to see in the story (plot and/or style-wise), that would be awesome! Of course, I can't guarantee that your suggestion will be answered, but I like to gather ideas.

Thank you to _Guest(1), Ramona Fox, Guest(2), JadedKrystal, Torchwood Cardiff, Guest(3), Batfan3, nrynmrth, Skendo, M-chanchen, and TimeyWimeyBadWolf_ for your lovely reviews!

-Alice x


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I do not own Alex Rider**

Chapter 3

" _It was the face of a blond angel, of a fifteen-year-old boy. The boy was as beautiful as Eve."_

 _Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse-Five_

* * *

Alex leaned against the wall of the observation room, arms crossed defensively over his chest. He was stone-faced, refusing to acknowledge the people around him. Beside him, Jones stood, unmoving and stiff. Her face was schooled in a neutral expression as she watched the scene in front of her. Byrne was also there, his usual casual posture now rigid. The rest of the officials were in another room, watching Aegosokovia's interrogation on a big screen, like some kind of sick movie.

"Tell us what the IA wants," the interrogator growled. The questioning had gone on for hours, and the man—Alex couldn't identify his accent—had resorted to extreme measures. It made Alex's stomach twist and turn, but he stayed.

Aegosokovia laughed loudly, blood spittle flying from his lips, "I already _told_ you. They want to kill _everyone_."

The man was unrelenting, "But what for?"

Aegosokovia made a jerking motion like he wanted to shrug, but he was held down by straps and buckles. The most he could do without straining against the bonds was to wiggle his toes. "For money? For pleasure? I don't really know. I get both when I _shlick!"_ He made a noise, and Alex was sure that if he had a hand free, Aegosokovia would draw a finger across his throat, that stupid shit-eating grin on his face.

The interrogator sighed and glanced over to the one-way mirror, the very definition of hopelessness seared onto his face. Alex would have felt bad for the man if he hadn't been watching him torture Aegosokovia for hours.

Jones moved toward the window, breaking the quietude in the room. She rapped her knuckles softly against the window, catching the interrogator's attention, who began to head for the door.

"Wait!" Aegosokovia called out, "Send in Alex. I have something _muy importante_ to tell him."

Alex watched the bound man with narrowed eyes, trying to find one—just one—weakness that he could use against him. It was all in vain, of course, because the last couple hours were exactly that: trying to find Aegosokovia's weakness.

"Go," Jones didn't look at him. She was staring at the man too, her usual blank face replaced by an uncharacteristic frown.

Alex took another moment to study the man before exiting the observation room and entering in the interrogation room.

The room was cold on Alex's skin, but Aegosokovia was drenched in sweat. It stunk of body odor and metallic blood. Alex did his best not to breathe in too much, but it was futile.

"You called?"

Aegosokovia was grinning happily up at him, somehow managing to look happy while bleeding from his face, "Alex! It's so nice to see your handsome face ag-"

Alex was impatient. He cut Aegosokovia off sharply, "Cut the crap. Tell me what you want to tell me."

"Ow, I'm _hurt,"_ to his credit, Aegosokovia did put on a very hurt expression that momentarily made Alex feel bad. A teasing grin replaced it a moment later, and Alex's mask hardened once more. Aegosokovia whispered dramatically, "You have to come closer, Al, li'l pal. Closer, _closer."_

Alex didn't move. He stared, unimpressed, at the assassin.

" _Okay_ ," Aegosokovia sighed, "I suppose I'll have to tell you," he looked around, as if checking for any eavesdroppers, though he knew well that there were people standing in the observation room. "The IA _really_ wants you. They want to take you and do really _naughty_ things."

Alex gritted his teeth at Aegosokovia's tone. It was like trying to talk to a petulant child that thought he was just as knowledgeable as an adult. "Like what?"

Aegosokovia shrugged as best as he could, "The little baby has finally broken away from its mother," he smiled brightly, "and when mommy was killed, little itsy-bitsy IA vowed to destroy the one who caused it."

Alex's eyes widened before he could control his body's reactions. He stepped closer, muscles tense, "This is happening because of what I did to SCORPIA?"

The other man laughed. It sounded forced and spit gurgled at the back of his throat, "Smart too! The whole package, huh? You have the new SCORPIA on your hands, Al. Why don't you spend your last living days with the man of your dreams?"

Alex barely contained the huff of annoyance that was making its way to the surface. Aegosokovia seemed to spot it, though, and he laughed again, winking suggestively at the spy.

From the other side of the one-way mirror, someone rapped sharply, calling for Alex's attention. He gave Aegosokovia one last glare before exiting, making sure to shut and lock the door completely after him.

"Conference room. Now," Jones was already out there, her stoic face set in determined lines. "We have to discuss this."

She turned sharply and marched away, her heels clacking and slapping against the white-tiled floor. After a moment, Alex followed, looking back to see if Byrne was going to come too.

"Get in," Jones motioned as she stepped into the elevator. It was pristine and cold. It seemed even colder now that Jones was occupying the space. It was like she was sucking the life and the warmth out of the air. Alex stepped in after her.

They were silent for most of the ride. Even the peppy elevator music couldn't mask the obvious tension in the atmosphere.

"So what are we going to do now?" Alex asked, watching the numbers above the elevator doors slowly increase.

Jones waited for the doors to _ding_ and slide open before answering with a cryptic, "Let's talk with the other representatives first."

Alex had no choice but to follow the curt MI6 director out of the elevator and towards a nondescript office door. He knew the rest of the representatives were there, no doubt arguing over what Aegosokovia had said moments before.

As soon as Jones flung open the door, the noise in the room died out. Alex stood behind her cautiously, waiting to see what she would say.

"I think," the director of MI6 said tightly, "that we would all agree in our course of action. Operation Salvation must be brought back."

There was a faint murmur of agreement. Somewhere in the back of the room, an accented voice muttered, "who died and made you commander?", but didn't protest any further.

"Excellent. We'll begin gathering our soldiers immedia-" Jones' commanding voice was cut short by a wailing siren.

A woman in the midst of the crowd pushed her way forward, scanning the screens that were supposed to display the interrogation rooms. The screen was fuzzy, glitching. She turned to glare heatedly at Jones, "Something's gone wrong. The IA agent—"

The room was instantly filled with panicked voices. They were checking their bodies, searching for a weapon, which, of course, they didn't.

"Everyone, let's handle this calmly—" Jones tried to interject, but her voice was drowned out by the rise of the other official's voices. "Excuse me—"

Alex's lips curled into a frown. He stepped forward, his shouting barely containing his irritation, "Listen!" His voice was drowned out by the din.

Alex exchanged frustrated glances with Jones before he pushed away from her, delving into the crowd to reach the woman.

"What happened?" He asked harshly as soon as the woman was within earshot. She wore a headset, and Alex determined that she was part of the tech crew.

"I don't know!" the woman shouted over the panicked officials, "One second, the IA guy is sitting there, the next, the screen goes fuzzy and the alarm is sounding. He escaped!"

Alex cursed under his breath, already having guessed that much. He glanced back at Jones, who was trying to gain control over the panic. They locked eyes, and with a tiny, nearly imperceptible nod, Alex set off for the exit.

He didn't have any of his usual weapons on him, so Alex was forced to compromise. He slipped past the crowd and through the door that he'd come in from. Before him, the hallway stretched out before him, challenging him. Alex had to find Aegosokovia fast, and he was at a disadvantage. He didn't know the buildings. He didn't know the nooks and crannies in the building.

Alex passed by an office as he moved silently down the hallway. Without a real weapon, he had to get creative. He armed himself with a pair of scissors.

The alarm came to an abrupt halt, but Alex ignored this. He knew that the danger was still out there. Aegosokovia and his IA buddies were definitely not rookies. _Or, they were already gone._ Alex's mind turned to the alternative, but he quickly pushed it away. He was going to get this bastard. There was no one who could stop him.

The elevators had stopped working when the alarms were sounded. Alex diverted his path to the nearest stairwell. There was only one way up and one way down.

The front doors were also locked, and a quick look at the windows lining the outside of the buildings told Alex that there was no way of getting out except for the roof.

With his pitiful excuse for a weapon and an inhuman degree of anger, Alex darted up the stairs as quickly as he could, his hackles raised and his senses on alert.

It didn't take him long to reach the roof, thanks to his paranoia in college. He'd kept up with his fitness and training, even though he had vowed not to return to the espionage world.

Nevertheless, he was panting as he reached the last flight of stairs, but the familiar rush of adrenaline was pushing him forward. Above the rushing of his blood and the pounding of his heart, Alex heard the unmistakeable noise of helicopter blades, chopping the air evenly.

Alex raced to the door, slamming into the push bar as hard as he could. When it didn't budge, he staggered back, panting. He surged forward again, and this time the door broke free, swinging open to reveal the helicopter already hovering a good ten feet above the ground, and a smug Aegosokovia, visibly waving at him from the cockpit.

Alex snarled, the muscles in his arm preparing to launch the pair of scissors at the helicopter. As if knowing what he would do, Aegosokovia gave a grand gesture, kissing his fingertips and blowing them back to Alex.

Alex couldn't do anything except watch the IA agent fly away.

* * *

 **A/N:** Hello everyone! This was uncomfortable to write because I'm suffering a little bit from writer's block. Anyway, it was my birthday yesterday, so you better leave good reviews! Lol, just kidding. Y'all can do whatever you want, but reviews would be really awesome. Thanks to everyone who reviewed for last chapter! Keep 'em coming... I love to hear feedback and things that I can improve in!

Oh yeah, and if you could all hop over to my profile page, I have a poll up regarding SpyFest and other activities. It would mean a lot for you to take it really quickly. Thank you! HUGS AND KISSES FOR EVERYONE.

-Alice x


	4. Chapter 4

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN ALEX RIDER**

 **A/N:** Unedited.

Chapter 4

 _"'All the real soldiers are dead,' she said. It was true. So it goes."_

 _Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse-Five_

* * *

Alex sat, defeated, back at where he started: the Royal and General Bank. He was back in the familiar office, sitting back in front of the familiar desk, feeling the same familiar emotions. Dread swirled around in the pit of his stomach, and his hands became clammy in his lap.

Jones sat in front of him, calm and collected, as if she didn't know what she'd just asked of him. Helping MI6 behind the lines—that's what he'd signed up for—but now, he wasn't being given a choice. He was going to be dragged into the life again, and he had a feeling that he wouldn't be able to get out again.

"A month to get 'acclimated' and then a mission?" Alex had to ask again. He couldn't trust his ears.

Jones nodded curtly, "Trust me, Alex. Returning to university is not in the best interest for you. The IA still has orders to kill you—or bring you in. It's dangerous, and you'll be better off here, back where you belong."

Alex fought of a scowl. He was sure that if he decided to go against her wishes, he would be forced to stay. Even as he thought that, Jones repeated her 'regrettable measures' speech.

He nodded in agreement at last, letting out a shaky breath, "What will we be doing during this month?"

Jones had the same cold smile plastered to her face again—the one that she wore every time she got what she wanted. She shook her head at his statement, " _We_ won't be doing anything. _You'll_ be sent to America. There is a team of Navy SEALs you will work with. MI6 and the other agencies will be picking off targets in the rest of the world—tactical air strikes that can't be used in the United States."

Alex tilted his head in silent question.

"We're only bombing the targets that are not close to any civilians," Jones explained. "Bryne has specifically requested your help in the United States."

Alex wasn't sure if he had heard correctly, but he swore that the woman muttered under her breath, " _probably because his agents always turn out to be moles."_

"Fine," Alex stood. "When do I leave?"

Jones stood too, gesturing for him to follow her, "Let's issue you a cover. Nothing life changing, I promise, _but_ you are not to tell the SEALs who you really are, understand? We don't know where the IA has infiltrated. You're SAS. You're going there because your superiors thought it would be a good idea for a bit of cooperation. You will undergo a physical transformation. Your name is Matthew Dawson, a twenty-three year old, who has served five years. You never went to college. You never had an uncle. Your mother and father were killed a car crash—"

"Car crash?" Alex was indignant, "Is this some kind of witness protection program?"

Jones paused. Alex couldn't make out the expression on her face, but she spoke a fraction of a second later, "You do not know an Alex Rider. You know only the basics of what the IA is, but the rest is classified to you..."

T*C*C

Matthew Dawson looked unremarkable. Alex missed his—or, rather, Alan Colt's—brown hair. It was now an unnatural shade of blade, though it was called "natural black". The team had assured him that it would look normal after an hour or so. There was a lot of information mumbling, which Alex didn't listen to. It wasn't like he would understand.

His eyes were no longer brown, but hazel. It was a very minute difference, but it still startled Alex every time he looked in the mirror. Smithers, in his fat suit and Scottish brogue, tried to explain the weird chemical he had injected into Alex. The basic gist was that it changed his eye color.

His face had changed slightly too. He wasn't sure how the team did it, but his jawline was more pronounced, as well as his cheekbones. His nose looked a little taller than it had been.

Matthew Dawson looked more like a work of art than a person.

Alex turned away from his reflection, grabbing the duffle bag that perched on the counter. It was all he was going to bring to America, not that it contained much. He was already in uniform, the SAS symbol blazing proudly from his beret. He was sure the symbol meant a lot to the soldiers that had struggled through Selection and on through the training exercises, but it meant nothing to him. The SAS was just another bad memory.

Briefly, Alex's mind flickered to the unit he had been placed in. Wolf wasn't so bad in the end, he supposed, but it didn't convince him to change his opinion.

He swung the duffle bag over one shoulder and exited the small restroom. Smithers was there, along with the cover team (they insisted that they weren't called the 'disguising team'), and Jones. They all had identical, expectant expressions.

"Well?" Alex demanded hotly, trying to cover up how awkward he felt. He didn't like it when people scrutinized him underneath a microscope.

"Yes, yes—great! You hardly look like yourself, old bean. One last thing before you head off," Smithers was his usual self, smiling secretively, as if he were letting Alex in on a big secret. He waddled over, the muzzle of a gun held firmly in a beefy hand. Alex took it cautiously, inspecting it expertly.

It looked like any other pistol. After a critical sweep with his eyes, Alex determined that it was made to look like a Glock 19—not a bad choice either. The weight was properly balanced, which wasn't surprising, given that Smithers had designed it. Alex had to take a moment to admire its beauty too. Sleek, black, comfortable—Alex wondered why MI6 kept the beauty hidden from him. Well, that is, until he remembered that for the last four years, he had been in America.

"Nothing too special, I'm afraid," Smithers sounded disappointed. "Couldn't put anything in there—too heavy. It's made specifically and only for you. Fingerprints needed, otherwise one of the safeties in there"—he tapped the muzzle, but Alex instinctively knew he was referring to the barrel—"won't disengage."

Alex nodded and holstered the weapon, "Thanks."

Smithers grinned, "Coming back safe and sound will be thanks enough, old chap."

Jones cleared her throat, the tiniest traces of irritation lingering on her face. She straightened and the look disappeared, "If you please, Alex. The jet is waiting for you."

Alex didn't have much time to say his goodbyes, but it wasn't that much of a loss. The only people he would acknowledge were Smithers and the cover team that seemed a little too friendly.

"This is the file," Jones handed him a folder. Strangely enough, it lacked its usual manila color and instead was a dark brown. Nothing adorned its cover—odd because even the most sensitive missions Alex went on bore the words 'TOP SECRET'. Jones took a few steps back, watching him through narrowed eyes, "Read it. Memorize it. Destroy it."

Alex gave a curt nod. Without another word, he made his way into the jet.

As the only passenger, Alex had the luxury to take up all the seats. A seat for his duffle bag. A seat for his body. Another seat just because he wanted to.

He vaguely heard the captain making an announcement—probably something along the lines of "don't do something stupid because we're taking flight now"—as he flipped open the dark brown folder.

There wasn't much in there. The first two pages consisted of information about Matthew Dawson. Childhood accidents that accounted for some of his scars. Soldier incidents that accounted for _all_ of his scars. It didn't take long for him to memorize that.

The next few pages were about the IA. Alex went through them methodically. There wasn't much that MI6 knew, apparently, which was disheartening. However, each country seemed to know where the major headquarters were in their country. They could handle that themselves. Alex snorted. It seemed that only the 'big' countries—Russia, the United States, China, Canada, and Mexico—needed aid in the form of spies.

The United States in particular had seven IA hideout holes. Three SEAL units were set to deal with all seven—Alex included. Three were located along the East Coast in key cities: Washington D.C., New York City, and Miami. Three cities. Three days.

Alex clenched his jaw as he read over it before dumping it into a nearby trashcan. He wasn't surprised when flames leapt from the bin, and the folder became ashes moments later.

The rest of the trip consisted of Alex reclining on the comfortable chair, trying to catch some sleep. He couldn't, however. His mind kept on drifting back to Aegosokovia, the IA, and MI6.

When the jet finally touched down, Alex was more than happy to get out of there. His duffle bag slung over his shoulder and a few half-hearted thanks to the pilot later, Alex feet were firmly planted onto the ground.

"Soldier."

Alex recognized the commanding tone immediately. He snapped into attention.

"At ease, soldier," the Sergeant nodded, either in approval or not, Alex couldn't tell. "Dawson, SAS, I presume?"

"Yes, sir," Alex relaxed, picking up the bag that he'd dropped seconds before.

"Good," the Sergeant sounded pleased. He gestured for them to walk. Behind them, Alex could hear the jet fuel line being pulled out. Men were shouting instructions in harsh tones. "I've been told that you'll be joining one of my units for a mission later this month"—he stopped short here, piercing Alex with a fierce glare—"Do me a favor. Don't mess it up."

After a short nod of agreement, the Sergeant was kind enough to give him directions to his new unit before striding off. Alex watched as he shouted at a nearby soldier that was filling up his water bottle. His eyebrows shot up when the soldier shouted back at him with a grin and a friendly quip of, "Go back to your office; you're too old to be wandering around by yourself, sir!"

Alex shook his head in disbelief before turning in the direction that the Sergeant had pointed him in.

American training camps weren't so different from the ones in the UK. For one, the huts seemed to be about the same size. The paths were the same twisty confusion as they were in the UK. Alex grinned, though, when his boots met solid, dry ground, rather than the squishy mud he had gotten used to in the few days he had spent in Wales.

His unit's hut (the Sergeant had informed him that his unit was called "Theta") was the eighth cabin on the right down a small pathway. He frowned at the half-heartedly carved lowercase theta in the frame of the wooden door. Before Alex could tear his attention away and knock, the door was forcefully pulled inwards.

Alex was met face to face by a slightly shorter man. He was young—not as young as Alex's true age was, perhaps, but young enough for Alex to classify the man under the 'rookie' drawer.

"You must be Dawson," the man greeted in a Southern drawl, stepping aside for Alex to enter. "I'm Jared Harrison. I head Theta Unit."

"Pleasure," Alex held out a hand to shake, awkwardly shuffling in at the same time. "You obviously know me. Matthew Dawson, SAS."

At this, the occupants to the room perked up. He didn't realize that Harrison had accepted his handshake until he felt the strength of his grip.

"SAS? Dude, this was your secret?"

"That's awesome!"

Three expectant faces peered up at them, shining with curiosity. Alex had to fight back a groan as he turned to the three. They were young too. From a quick glance, Alex determined that they were younger than he was.

"Matthew Dawson," Alex reintroduced, waving a hand at the three.

The first person up eagerly shook his hand, "I'm Joe. Joe Myers. Not even the first week of being a SEAL, and I get to meet SAS? This is epic."

He had the appearance of a small monkey with the tendency to swing his hands around as he spoke. His baby face hadn't quite faded yet, even though Alex was sure that the boy (or man?) was older than seventeen. It didn't help that, from what Alex could see, his skin was virtually unblemished. His light, blond hair, cropped close to his skull, looked out of place on his head.

Alex raised his eyebrows at the statement. Jones hadn't mentioned that these were new— _very, very_ new—recruits.

The second person to rise looked to be the same age as Myers. He stuck out his hand, and Alex noticed a nearly hidden scar that stretched up from the center of his palm. He didn't question it as the man introduced himself, "Andrew Evans. Nice to meet you."

Alex took his hand gingerly.

"Kyle Lloyd," the last person wore a indecipherable expression on his face. He merely nodded to Alex. He got the feeling that most of the blunt logic came from the guy.

"Nice to meet you all," Alex put a small smile on his face that no doubt seemed fake. He moved to the only bed that was open.

"So what's SAS doing, suddenly sending you over here?" Harrison, the decidedly _new_ unit leader questioned as Alex began to unpack the few items he brought.

"Cooperation or something," he shrugged. "I'm sure your Sergeant briefed you about some of the current events. My commanders thought it would be a good idea for a swap. I wouldn't be surprised if one of your men hopped across the pond for a month."

Alex could feel the intense gazes searing across his back. He shifted uncomfortably, realizing that he really didn't belong in 'soldier zone' again.

"So what do Navy SEALs spend all their time doing?" Alex diverted the topic elsewhere, sitting on top of his bed.

Myers answered him enthusiastically, "It's great! I mean, I only _just_ passed basic training, but so far, we're doing a lot of cool training exercises and classes. Like, we have a language class. We also have a sniper class and if you're picked, there's an _advanced_ sniper class—"

Alex raised an eyebrow when the third guy, Evans, interrupted with a, "I don't think he wants to hear about that—"

"—Of course he does. He asked, didn't he?"

"Well yeah, but your explanations are always so—"

"—so what, huh? Awesome?"

"No! So—"

"–annoying?"

"Yes, that too, but—"

"Don't mind them," Harrison rolled his eyes, inching closer to Alex. "They've known each other since the early years apparently."

Alex eyed the bickering couple. Even Lloyd, who seemed more like the brooding kind, looked amused at the two, "How new are these recruits again?"

"Those three came about a week ago," Harrison seemed to sense the doubtful tone in Alex's voice. He was bristling with a sense of defense. "I've served for a year."

Alex blinked at the bit of news, "Five years," he offered as a kind of peace treaty. It obviously didn't work that way. Harrison's friendly demeanor shifted, and he suddenly seemed a lot less friendly.

"You must have seen a lot of action, then," the man's fists were clenched. "How was Iran?"

"Arid," Alex tried to backpedal. He could never properly get along with soldiers, could he? Perhaps the inner 'soldier' inside Harrison warned him against the 'spy' inside of Alex. "About what you would expect."

The arguing had reached a peak, and Evans and Myers began a friendly tussle, Lloyd watching them. Under normal circumstances, Alex would have pegged Lloyd as a suspicious person—the silent, watchful kind—but glancing at the man, he didn't get that vibe.

"What the fuck is going on in here?" a new voice emerged. It was followed by the sound of stomping feet, and the door swung open.

Alex eyed the man critically. He was clearly more experienced than Theta Unit. His dog tags dangled from around his neck, slapping his bare skin as he moved. An angry frown lit up his face. Alex was reminded of a charging rhinoceros.

"What now, Wheeler?" Harrison rubbed his eyes tiredly.

Wheeler's eyes snapped to the unit leader before drifting over to Alex. The frown on his face slowly lifted upwards so that a clear smirk showed. Alex observed the stride the other man took. It told him everything he needed to know. The man thought he was, in some way, superior to the unit before him, probably because they weren't war veterans like him.

"Who's this?"

Another man peeked in the hut, directly behind Wheeler. He looked apologetically at Harrison.

"Dawson," Alex introduced firmly, "SAS."

Wheeler looked pleased at the news, "SAS, huh? What are you doing, hanging around these recruits?"

The man had a crude tone to his voice, which Alex quickly identified as a schoolboy bully's tone. He never did take well to bullies.

"I was assigned to Theta Unit," Alex's voice had dropped a few degrees, and it held a hard edge. He tilted his head, "You know, the polite thing to do would be to introduce yourself."

The slightly sarcastic comment—Alex really didn't want to talk to this man any longer—didn't faze Wheeler. He shrugged and said, "Wheeler. I head the Upsilon Unit."

Alex nodded tersely, "Well, Upsilon, I believe this is a Theta Unit hut. We're just getting to know each other.

Wheeler probably realized then that they weren't going to be good friends. His face automatically dropped down into an unfriendly sneer as he turned back to the rest of the unit, "If you know what's best for you, _shut up."_

He stormed out of the doorway, pushing past the guy behind him, who awkwardly lengthened his strides to keep up with Wheeler.

Alex watched them go, a curious expression on his face. He turned to ask the unit about the strange occurrence, but Meyers beat him to it.

"Dude, that was epic!"

Alex glanced to Harrison, the question on the tip of his tongue, but when he looked over, Harrison was no longer looking at him. A fond smile played on his lips as he watched his unit begin to bicker again.

Letting his guard down just _slightly,_ Alex knew why. He leaned against the frame of his bed, closing his eyes just for the moment. If he breathed just right and lingered a little longer, he could imagine his childhood days with his best mate.

"—but I think we can all agree that that Wheeler guy is a dickhead!"

* * *

 **A/N:** Sorry for the _loooong_ delay. After trying to get past a writer's block, I wasn't sure wasn't sure where to go with this, and yeah... excuses, excuses. Sorry it ended a bit awkwardly. For some reason, I couldn't think of a good way to end it.

Hugs and kisses to _Guest (1), Guest (2), TimeyWimeyBadWolf, JadedKrystal, agent potter, M-chanchen, Guest (3), ripper34, SMERSH (guest), nrynmrth, MYDAY123, and Batfan3!_ Y'all are awesome! Thanks to everyone who has favorited and followed as well! It means a lot! If you're still here after a month's of unplanned hiatus, then I am truly thankful. You posses levels of awesome that I could never reach.

ANYWAY, hope you liked. If you have any interest regarding **SPYFEST (YAY!),** please hop on over to the _Revival_ 's forum to look at updates/events/etc. Wolfern is here to help me this year, so expect to see some pretty awesome prompts (at least, I hope).

-Alice x


	5. Chapter 5

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN ALEX RIDER**

Chapter 5

 _"People aren't supposed to look back. I'm certainly not going to do it anymore."_

 _Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse-Five_

* * *

Life at the Navy SEAL base never had a dull moment. For one thing, the soldiers were a lot more comfortable with their Sergeant than SAS soldiers were, though Alex didn't know if he was qualified to make that judgement. He hadn't exactly spent that long observing the typical SAS lifestyle since he was busy trying to ward of K-Unit's attempts to kick him out.

Alex quickly learned how Theta Unit functioned. Jared Harrison was the leader. Although he still acted quite cold towards Alex, Harrison cared for his unit like a momma bear would for her cubs. He wasn't much older than the other three members of Theta Unit, but that didn't seem to deter him. He clashed with the Upsilon Unit members almost daily, ranging from hidden glares to angry spats, which were kept quiet before the Sergeant could punish them.

Alex tried to develop a somewhat civil friendship with the soldier, but Harrison insisted on staying a distance away from Alex. He tried not to take it personally. Harrison seemed like the kind of guy that liked his given authority and didn't want anyone coming along and taking it from him (AKA Matthew Dawson, SAS, who served five years—four extra years longer than Harrison himself).

Joe Myers was somewhat of a comic relief, though not in a good way. He liked to crack jokes that weren't really funny to anyone who passed by, but they were apparently outrageously hilarious to everyone else in Theta Unit. When the other four weren't looking, Alex had caught the other units openly laughing at them.

Alex couldn't figure out what Myers specialized in or even remotely what area he excelled in. With the mission slowly creeping up on them, Alex wanted to make sure he had his unit all figured out before randomly throwing his life into the hands of these rookies. For now, it seemed like Myers was just mediocre at everything, though he had a strange fascination with languages and enjoyed sniping cardboard cutouts of men with guns.

Andrew Evans, the third member of Theta Unit, was an interesting person. Without the aide of Myers, he would get quiet fast and stay that way until the other came back with a wide grin plastered to his monkey-like face. He was incredibly determined, Alex noted the first day during physical training. Evans' face was bright red as the drill Sergeant pushed the soldiers harder than normal, but he kept going without complaint. He had an affinity for hand-to-hand combat, and during spars, he took each hit without a bat of an eye.

The scar the Alex had seen on the first day of his arrival continued to spark his curiosity, though Alex kept his mouth shut about it. He had his suspicions, but he didn't exactly want to ask about Evans' personal history.

The boy wasn't friendly either, though he did manage a smile or two. Alex didn't blame him. It looked like they both had trust issues.

The last member, Kyle Lloyd, didn't like to talk unless it was needed. He was the rational brain of Theta Unit. He kept them on time to every lesson or training exercise. He ended arguments as quickly as they had been started. He was quick, blunt, and sharp. Alex liked him a lot despite his cold exterior.

He wasn't childhood friends with Evans and Myers like Alex had thought. In fact, he was quite the enigma about his past. Alex didn't care about that as long as he wasn't a traitor.

Lloyd was a complete genius when it came to technology. His job at the base—besides training on the range and running through obstacle courses—included something in military intelligence. Classified, of course. Myers pestered Lloyd daily about his work, but the man only scowled and shook his head in response.

Alex was the outsider. He tried to fit in with the others—after all, trust had to go both ways—but it was a struggle. He wasn't sure if it was because he had been out of the game for so long or if Americans were naturally defensive.

Alex's first full day made him rethink his whole decision many years ago about pretending to be killed, then living his dream life somewhere secluded. Theta Unit, being one of the newer Navy SEAL units, was friends with the other newer recruits. Alex had to constantly bite his tongue in case his temper got the better of him, and he decided to shout at their eagerness to die in a firestorm of bullets.

It seemed that Harrison wasn't the only soldier with a thirst to prove his superiority. Alex spent his first breakfast listening to the soldiers recount their basic training which went something along the lines of:

"Have _you_ ever been to the Rockies just for training? We had to hike up one of the mountains. Gosh, it was freezing. And then we had to..." _blah blah blah._ Alex didn't listen after another guy began a long tirade of accomplishments.

That was where the game began. Alex didn't know if it was really an _established_ game per se, but it was happening too frequently for him to ignore. During meals, random soldiers would bound to his table and strike up a conversation. Well, a one-sided conversation. It was annoying. Alex didn't want to spend his meals trying to block out a unit of soldiers' tales about their training. He spent his time staring mournfully at the more experienced units who mostly kept to themselves and talked about trivial things like guns.

After that, the challenges starting up. First it was the Upsilon Unit challenging him to see how many bullseyes he could get with a round of bullets, then it was challenging him to break the record time on the obstacle course.

Alex was absolutely fed up with it. All he wanted to do was take down the I.A. and go back to his life.

It was quiet on base, save for a few piercing snores. The sun was still hidden somewhere below the horizon, and the birds were (thankfully) sleeping.

Alex wasn't going to pretend that it wasn't absolutely freezing outside. Even though he was swaddled in a black SAS hoodie and the sweatpants that the Navy SEALs did morning PT in, Alex was shivering, his breaths making small, nearly invisible clouds in the air before him. He balanced his laptop on his lap, staring at the screen.

He did this most mornings before anyone else was awake. It wasn't exactly hard for him to hack into MI6 (Alex suspected that Smithers was the one to give him access; Alex was good, but not _that_ good). He wanted to keep tabs on the air strikes against the I.A. From what Alex could tell, the strikes were spotty at best. The missions to infiltrate their bases weren't going well either. Russia's troops had unexpectedly been ambushed. Twenty soldiers—all dead.

Alex watched wearily as a blinking dot moved slowly somewhere along the south of Iran. He shook his head, exiting the screen and back onto the mission files. He wouldn't learn anything by watching the strikes.

Maneuvering the cursor back onto the file that read "A.R." which he could only assume was him, Alex let out a breath. He opened the file, reading the contents once more. There was nothing new it in—just the same basic information he had memorized on the plane.

He frowned, exiting out of that too. Alex itched to be able to get his hands on the other countries' files. He wanted to know what was going on in the rest of the world, and he only had a limited amount of access.

The first bird began to titter in the trees, followed by another, then another. Alex gritted his teeth as he refreshed the page again and again, hoping for another update to come in.

He wasn't disappointed.

After the seventh refresh, a new file appeared labeled "I.A. Re:". Alex could only assume that it was follow-up message sent to either the members of MI6 or to the rest of the intelligence agencies.

He eagerly clicked on it, coming face to face with a list of letters. Upon closer inspection, Alex realized it was the names of agencies. CIA, MI5, DGSI etc. Scrolling down, he began to attempt to decipher the obviously coded message.

Alex barely held back the groan that seemed to originate from years of pent up frustration of missing math class for missions. It, of course, wasn't that bad. He wasn't the type to get hopelessly lost in class, even if he had missed two weeks of material. It just brought back bad memories.

He glared at the row of numbers that seemed—to the untrained eye—meaningless, but to his eyes, it was plainly a matrix encoded message. Alex worked quickly, glancing over his shoulder once or twice to make sure no one was watching.

Gritting his teeth, Alex stared down at the message he had just decoded, his blood running cold.

 _IA RECRUITING CHILDREN._

There was nothing more, and Alex let a growl of frustration rumble through him.

"What do you think you're doing, Dawson?"

Too late Alex realized that the door behind him had opened and a groggy Harrison was peering at him with narrowed, suspicious eyes. Alex turned so that Harrison couldn't see the numbers on his screen (not that that mattered—Harrison couldn't decode the page with one look) and closed the top with one hand.

"I'm emailing my family," Alex put on an exasperated look, even though he was mentally scrambling. He was losing his touch. "Not that it's any of your business."

Harrison's eyes sharpened, and he stood taller, trying to appear larger than he actually was. Alex applauded his effort mentally.

"Don't you have a phone?" he asked, stepping out almost threateningly.

Alex glared, "Don't you know the prices of international calls?"

Harrison apparently couldn't find any fault with that. He stepped back into the hut, his eyes flashing dangerously. "I'm watching you," he warned.

The door banged shut, startling the nearby birds into silence.

Alex let out a long breath, standing to follow the unit leader in.

 _IA RECRUITING CHILDREN._

Two more weeks, he told himself, opening the laptop again to delete any trace he had ever been in the MI6 system. He would end it in two more weeks.

Alex glanced doubtfully at Theta Unit, who were all awake now and messing around, throwing dirty laundry at each other and whatever their morning routine was. He shook his head, wondering if there was even the slightest chance of them working together as a real unit.

As he entered the room and a stray sock slapped the door behind him, Alex sighed, getting his answer.

 _IA RECRUITING CHILDREN._

* * *

 **A/N:** Um... HI. I'm still alive! I honestly have no good excuse for this really long wait, and I hope that you guys didn't give up on me. AHH I FEEL SO BAD. I WILL MAKE IT UP TO YOU. On another note, this chapter wasn't great, and I think my writing has changed to "English literature" style. Probably because I've been reading a ton, but oh well. Also, I recently created a Wattpad account. I don't know why I didn't do it sooner. There are some really good books out there. I'm thinking about posting TCC on there or maybe AWOL (once I edit it). I'm also working up to post an original novel there... Once I write it... and edit it. Awkward.

ANYWAY, PLEASE FORGIVE ME. YOU GUYS ARE AMAZING. I LOVE YOU.

Special thanks to: _nrynmrth,Whisperponyx, JadedKrystal, Peek-a-bloody-boo, Guest (1), Guest (2), Eulalia (guest), I Advise Advice (guest), M-chanchen, MYDAY123, FA (guest), and Batfan3 !_ You guys keep me going!

Oh, and before I forget. To _I Advise Advice (guest):_ I took in consideration what you said and did a little research, and I don't think there is a difference between using "defense" and "defence". I believe it's only a dialectal difference. "Defense" is the preferred spelling in America. Correct me if I'm wrong:)

OKAY HUGS AND KISSES. I'm gonna work on the next chapter before someone sends assassins to my house xD

-Alice x


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